


Tinseltown

by LaurytheLatrator



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: (sort of), Actor Geralt, Alternate Universe - Hollywood, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Coming Out, Exes, Getting Back Together, Hand Jobs, Insecurity, Jealousy, Love Confessions, M/M, Morning Sex, Reunions, Singer Jaskier, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-01
Updated: 2020-02-01
Packaged: 2021-02-20 03:29:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22075522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaurytheLatrator/pseuds/LaurytheLatrator
Summary: Back when Jaskier was a small town busker he hooked up with Geralt, an MMA fighter gaining renown. Now Jaskier's a musician struggling to keep his head above water in Los Angeles, while his ex is one of the most famous actors in the world. He never expected their paths to cross again, but there wouldn't be any stories if life went the way we expect.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 215
Kudos: 2755





	1. Trembling Hands

Somehow if Jaskier imagined them meeting again, he never expected it to go like this.

“What are you doing here?” That unforgettable raspy voice says from behind him. Jaskier jumps, accidentally twanging a discordant note from his guitar. He spins around, and it’s Geralt, of course it is, looking like he stepped out of a glossy trash mag cover. For an unabashed moment he stares at the man in front of him. He looks as beautiful as the day they parted ways.

Of course he’s here, Jaskier kicks himself. Calanthe “The Lioness” Cintra only hosts the brightest stars in Hollywood. It was only a fluke that Jaskier was there, some booking conflict for a better act.

Finally he finds his voice. “Hi,” Jaskier bleats out like a startled sheep, “I’m, uh, entertainment, not a guest. No need to mingle with me.”

Geralt says with a frustrated sort of grunt, “Jaskier.”

“You know who I am?” Obviously he hadn’t expected anything. It was over a decade since Geralt had passed through a little town and stumbled over a busker. Jaskier hadn’t even been playing coffee shops then, let alone small gigs of his own, and Geralt was already famous in the MMA scene. And yet that didn’t stop Jaskier from pestering him, and flirting, and realizing slowly that the stilted conversations and occasional witty quips were Geralt’s way of flirting back.

But he hadn’t thought he was a good enough lay to remember years later, certainly not for a man like Geralt.

“I mean,” Jaskier rushes to explain, “I know you, obviously.” Even if he hadn’t happened to be in the right place all those years ago, he’d know Geralt. _The Witcher_ was the biggest ongoing action movie series, with actual legions of rabid fans. Geralt had been voted People’s third sexiest man in the world, and Jaskier agreed it was a travesty. Some people still didn’t appreciate the scars Geralt had accumulated through MMA and later stunt work which had become his signature, along with that platinum white hair. 

“You’re paid to be here?” Geralt asks, neatly sidestepping Jaskier awkward fumbling. “Lucky.”

“Oh, is this, are you working too?” It feels like a stupid question, but Geralt nods.

“My agent told me to come. We’re…” It almost looks like speaking so much is costing him effort. “doing press… for my new film.”

Jaskier nods vigorously, “ _Witcher 4_ , it looks badass, my man.” Geralt stares at him. “Not that you’re _my_ —I meant—mate, er, buddy—”

Thankfully Geralt ignores him again. “When do you play?”

“9pm, in the garden, so guests can come and go, you know…”

“Good.” And Geralt promptly walks away.

That was maybe the least smooth he’d ever been in his life. Jaskier resists the urge to beat himself over the head with his guitar.

Later when he stands on the raised stage, in a glittering garden of fairy lights and gold gowns, he sings the singles off his latest album and scans the crowd for that white head of hair. It could be the lights in his eyes, but he can’t find him among the Hollywood elite, who shout over his music to talk amongst themselves as if there isn’t an entire mansion they can go in to talk instead.

He tells himself he’s not disappointed, just like he pretends he isn’t googling _Geralt Rivia <24 hours _ the next morning. There’s photos from paparazzi already circulating, shots of Geralt entering the party in that too-tight tuxedo, Yennefer on his arm. She’s gorgeous like always, and their chemistry is as apparent in the pictures as it is on screen. Searching his own name doesn’t show any results from the party.

Jaskier gives up.

* * *

It’s a week later he gets the call. At 8:13am on a Monday.

“‘Lo?” He mumbles blearily into the phone.

“Is this Jaskier?”

“Yeah, who’s this?”

“My name is Triss, of Brotherhood Talent.”

The name means nothing to him. “Okay?”

“I got your contact information from Calanthe’s people, I understand you played her most recent event. We are interested to know, do you only perform at events, or do you play concerts?”

“Uh, I have gigs, yeah.” It’s dawning on his sleep-addled mind that this could be important. “I, um, sort of have an agent already, if that’s what this is about.”

“Not particularly why I’m calling, no. When is your next concert? Is it in LA?”

“Y-yeah,” Jaskier replies with furrowed brow, mentally pulling up his schedule. “It’s on the 21st. A, uh, a bar called The Purple Hare, 10pm.”

“What’s security like there?”

“Security? I don’t know, it’s a bar. Why? Why are you asking?”

“Hm, we’ll have to supply our own. The Purple Hare you said? We’ll be in touch with the venue. Thank you so much for your time Mr. Jaskier.”

“It’s just Jaskier,” He corrects, but the woman, Triss, has already hung up. He flops back on the bed with a huff.

* * *

“Oh,” Jaskier comments as he’s pat down by a burly gentleman, “Security.” The gentleman grunts. “You know I’m the talent tonight, right? That’s my face on the poster there. Do you want a poster? CD? We haven’t set up the merch table yet, but I could—“

“You’re good,” The security guard grants him entry.

“Okay, thanks,” He says, still puzzled. He’s been playing at the Purple Hare on and off for months now and never needed this rigamarole.

When he gets inside, it’s easy to spot the extra security among the early arrivals. Jaskier heads back to the shadowed stage, where he recognizes the techs working the mics. He gives some high fives and lays out his setlist on a stool and runs through a few chords. The sound is good, because the venue’s familiar, and he spies a few familiar faces already looking to the stage. His following isn’t huge, but he has enough repeat local gigs to accumulate some loyal fans.

And then he sees the figure in the corner of the bar, back pressed up against the wall, and a grey hoodie pulled low over his face. It’s as though they’re trying to hide except their body mass is betraying them, with hunched yet broad shoulders, and long legs pulled into a small space. All this would be suspicious enough, except there’s a security guard standing _right_ next to him looking unperturbed as he scans the _rest_ of the room.

Jaskier has never learned the lesson about curiosity and the cat or canary or whatever. He abandons the stage and strides over to the unusual figure. The security holds out a hand, but the figure grumbles, “Let him sit.” And, yes, Jaskier is really that unlucky.

“Geralt?” He hisses as he takes the chair opposite. Yes, those piercing hazel eyes peering out beneath the hood are unmistakable. “What are you doing here?” Jaskier asks quietly, feeling as though they’re running in circles.

“I missed seeing you play at the party. So I came tonight.” Geralt doesn’t seem to realize how strange that is. 

“But…” Jaskier looks back to the little stage under the bar’s cheap lights and his merch table set up next to the specials board. Before he can point these things out, his gaze lands on one of the conspicuous guards. ”You!” He realizes, turning back to Geralt. “You’re the reason Triss called, asking about security.”

If possible, Geralt hunches in on himself even more. “Sorry. She overreacts.”

“No, it’s…” Jaskier trails off, staring at Geralt. He’s being rude. Geralt is… it boggles the mind, but this is unmistakably him reaching out. He went to an effort to come tonight, to a mediocre show, for a lover he hasn’t seen in years. It makes his guts squirm with something unbearably tender.

Jaskier puts his hand on the tabletop, wincing when he hits something sticky. That derails whatever heartfelt thing he was about to blurt out and instead he says, “It’s not really Calanthe’s mansion, sorry about that. They do have good beer though, some fancy lagers I think you’ll like. Let me get you one.”

Jaskier’s already standing when Geralt says, “I’m not supposed to drink. It’s not on my diet.”

His eyebrows go on a complicated journey. “Mate, I think you can afford a cheat day.” Geralt huffs a low laugh that tugs on Jaskier’s heart. “One beer won’t ruin that dainty figure. Be right back.”

A few moments later, he returns with two lagers brimming with foam. “It’s good to see you,” Jaskier finally says, immediately hiding behind his glass.

Geralt’s chin raises, exposing a little more of his face, and Jaskier thinks he reads surprise there. “Good to see you, too,” He says quietly.

It’s silly to ask how he’s been. Geralt’s meteoric rise is well documented. So Jaskier asks, “Do you really hate press junkets and parties and things? You said at Calanthe’s I was lucky to be paid to be there. But you always manage to look comfortable in the videos.”

“You watch those?”

Blushing, Jaskier replies, “It’s hard to avoid in this town.”

“Right,” Geralt says, “Is it weird?”

“Seeing your face and/or naked body everywhere? Not really.” He’s a liar, he’s lying. It isn’t all consuming, of course. Though every now and then he takes a selfie in front of a billboard of Geralt shirtless, just for himself, to remind him of that short yet wild part of his history.

“How long have you been in LA?” Geralt asks, polite yet monotone.

“Four years. Two years of couch surfing, though so not sure if those count. Finally have my own place.” He knocks on the table lightly.

“I’m surprised I haven’t seen you before now.”

Jaskier snorts. “You’re being far too kind. I have one EP that’s doing well in Ireland and the Netherlands, and my fan club is, oh…” He looks to the bar at the familiar faces, who keep shooting curious glances their way, “Half a dozen strong.”

Geralt looks down and drinks his beer. Jaskier winces; he’s being rude again.

“Seriously though, it is so nice that you came. I didn’t expect, well, anything.”

“You were always talented,” says Geralt offhand, “It’s good you could pursue it.”

Jaskier gawks, thinking of all the times Geralt playfully swatted at his guitar or ragged on his voice. He’d thought his music annoyed the man at best.

A commotion sounds behind them, and while Geralt sinks low, Jaskier looks over his shoulder. One of the techs had come up and been stopped by a security guard. The two were currently arguing. 

“Shit,” says Jaskier, “I probably have to go.” He takes in Geralt’s hunted animal bearing and adds, “Don’t slink off before the end, give me a chance to thank you properly.” Oops, that ended up sounding suggestive.

Before he can babble on, Geralt says, “Good luck,” And Jaskier makes his escape.

The tech had, in fact, been coming to get him. There were five minutes left to prep. As Jaskier returns to his setlist, he pales. One night stand, one night stand, pining for his roommate at the time, one night stand…

“Fuck,” He realizes aloud, “I’m a slut.” Someone in his cluster of fans must’ve heard him, because there’s a sudden wolf-whistle.

There’s one song he absolutely crosses off. He’d written it shortly after Geralt left town. There was no way he could perform it in front of him.

He takes a deep breath, and the lights come on.

* * *

“Thank you so much!” Jaskier calls out over the applause. Some of the bar patrons, who clearly just came there to drink, must have enjoyed the performance as well. The swell of the crowd feels larger than the small venue can support.

“Encore!” A voice cries.

Someone who must be a fan shouts, “Play _Stupid!_ ”

“Not tonight,” Jaskier demurs. Except his pulse is up and there’s something about this audience that is emboldening. So he says, “Actually, I do have another song.” The clapping quiets into anticipation. He sits on the stool and hefts up his guitar. “I wrote this shortly after moving to Los Angeles. It wasn’t, shall we say, a fun time.”

He starts to strum the old notes and sing the introductory _Ohhs_ …

> ["Turning the ground](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-g9MK4-O_ow)  
> I once used to know  
> People are strangers  
> Same as before  
> Streets look familiar  
> I remember the park  
> Where I buried my head  
> So deep in my hands  
> All around me was dark...”

It’s different than the rest of his set, and the audience can tell. There are no more cheers. They listen.

> “This here city  
> Is for the lonely ones  
> You won't find no angels  
> Selling maps to the lost  
> This here place  
> Is too small for two  
> It took one to realize  
> When dreaming’s this hard  
> It's not meant to come true...”

He breathes deep.

> “So throw me a line  
> Somebody out there help me  
> I'm on my own  
> I'm on my own  
> Throw me a line  
> Afraid that I have come here  
> To win you again  
> With trembling hands...”

As he finishes the song, the moment holds, his voice hanging like crystals in the air. He waits to see what the people make of his vulnerability, whether they will pounce like tigers on prey. But no, there’s silence, and then the applause rolls in like thunder, stronger than before. Still raw and exposed, Jaskier takes his bow, and steps down as soon as he’s able.

First he heads back to the bar bathroom. In the mirror is a pale, sweaty, disgusting creature, so Jaskier washes himself until he can recognize humanity in the glass. He pushes back his mop of wet hair and slaps his cheeks to regain some color. Nodding at his reflection, he prepares to face the music.

As soon as he opens the bathroom door, there’s an enormous figure cloaked in grey blocking the way out, and Jaskier blinks until his mind registers _Geralt,_ at which point the man is already pushing into the room. Jaskier is forced to back up, his mouth hanging open in surprise, and then Geralt roughly pushes back his hood, exposing his gorgeous face.

His lower back hits the sink as he finally says, “Ger—”

“Shut up,” Geralt hisses, and then he bends down and kisses him. Jaskier’s mouth is already half-agape so the kiss is wet and filthy immediately. He groans and twists his hands in that stupid hoodie and does his best to keep up. It was always impossible. Geralt kissed with consuming intent, to _take_ , with little regard for paltry things like oxygen. He’d never had a chance to do anything fancy in return.

Now though… Jaskier takes a chance, backs up for a moment, and before Geralt can get the wrong impression he swoops back in and bites his lower lip. The growl that elicits goes straight to his groin. As if he knows, Geralt scoops him up with ease and Jaskier’s sitting on the edge of the sink, their hips perfectly in line. Fuck, he thinks as he grinds into the other man, they’re going to fuck in this bathroom.

Like the bite was a revelation, Geralt dips his head and starts leaving open-mouth bites down Jaskier’s neck.

Yes, he gasps, they’re going to fuck.

Through the absolute bliss, he reaches for Geralt’s pants and undoes his belt. Geralt mumbles something into his skin that Jaskier takes as consent, and slips his hand in. The angle sucks, but he can wrap his fingers around Geralt’s girth, and Geralt pushes his hips so he’s fucking Jaskier’s grip. The mumbling increases, not that Jaskier can decipher it, especially when Geralt bites hard directly into the base of his throat. Jaskier can’t lean his head back any farther, just lets out a long moan, and oh, Geralt remembered his neck kink, incredible. He’s so close, and his jeans are still on, he’s just rutting against Geralt’s thigh.

“Ger, are you…” He manages to ask when Geralt’s thrusts go short and shallow. Geralt just hisses and presses against his hardness and, yes, yes, he’s coming, just from this. “Ah, ah,” He groans out, until there’s a hand covering his mouth, and that’s an opportunity to suck his finger in and, yes…

A few heartbeats later, he breathes out and releases Geralt’s finger, taking stock of the world. There’s cum in his pants, fantastic, and a wet spot on Geralt’s, _fantastic_. Geralt’s head is bent, white hair pressed against his collar bone, panting into his t-shirt. Without thinking, Jaskier raises his hands to rub Geralt’s shoulders.

“Alright?” He asks.

Geralt raises his head, gaze fixed on Jaskier’s neck. He says, “I should go,” which shouldn’t hurt yet somehow does. Jaskier drops his arms and leans back, but starts to topple into the sink. With lightning fast reflexes, Geralt steadies him, and says, “Careful.” That gets them, accidentally, to lock eyes, and the hazel is stunning and soft. Jaskier kisses him, gently, licking where he bit before. To his surprise, Geralt allows him this tenderness.

When he pulls back, he says, “You don’t have to. Leave, I mean. We could go back to my place. Keep catching up.” He lets that sentence mean whatever Geralt wants it to mean.

Thankfully, looking at each other, this time Jaskier can read regret on his face. “I’ve been gone too long. My detail will get suspicious.” Finally, he steps back, and Jaskier grabs the edge of the sink for balance. Geralt does up his pants, and adds, “You were very good.”

Jaskier snorts, “You weren’t bad yourself.”

Startled, Geralt laughs. “On stage. Your songs are good. Your voice…” He smirks, “Has improved.”

“Oi,” Jaskier kicks him in the shin, and Geralt laughs again, raspy and beautiful. He moves to the door, tosses one last look back, then he’s gone.

In the sudden stillness, Jaskier sighs, letting his head hit the mirror. What had he gotten himself into?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't written anything more for this story, but I have inspiration. Let me know if you have anything you'd like to see for these two.
> 
> The song Jaskier sings is Trembling Hands by The Temper Trap.


	2. Homeless/Grade 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “My good sir,” He called, as though he were a Shakespearian minstrel, “You look like someone who appreciates a good tune. Have you any requests?”
> 
> Geralt had kept his head pointed straight ahead and grunted, “Blessed silence.”

He thinks about Jaskier _all day_.

He wakes up tangled in his egyptian cotton sheets and remembers mornings huddled under a rough woolen blanket, with the busker curled into him. He eats his egg white omelet and turkey bacon and thinks of Jaskier shoveling pancakes into his maw. He jogs on his treadmill and stares out the window and hears the moans of morning sex past.

It had been a month out of time. Geralt was touring the UK and he had a match in Middle-of-Nowhere, Ireland. He’d been set up in an apartment some old lady would call quaint, but it was close to the only gym in town. And as he discovered, the road to the gym was home to a young guitar player, with round soulful eyes. And a mouth that ran off when he saw Geralt.

“My good sir,” He called, as though he were a Shakespearian minstrel, “You look like someone who appreciates a good tune. Have you any requests?”

Geralt had kept his head pointed straight ahead and grunted, “Blessed silence.”

The busker gasped, a hand over his heart. “Someone hasn’t had their coffee,” He said, which was true. Coffee wasn’t on his diet.

It was two hours later, when he was walking back from his workout, endorphins running high in his blood, that he paid the busker more attention. Geralt caught the man mid-song, and slowed his approach as the music met him. The busker sang to no one, his eyes down on his fingers, sliding deftly over the frets. Geralt came to a stop.

> [“Truth be, never went to Uni](https://youtu.be/Hqj6nBU3aag?t=280)  
> People see right through me, but I'm not a fool, see  
> I'm never gonna do one, I'm gonna live past 22, done  
> Everything I need to except get a 2:1...”

The melody was jaunty, with a tinge of something sad in his voice. And it was a good voice, beautiful and light, though even Geralt could tell it was a little unpolished. The man raised his head and bobbed along with his song as he sang louder.

> “I haven't slept for the past week  
> Two hours ain't enough for me  
> I feel inspired, at quarter to three am  
> I haven't changed since our last meet  
> I'm still getting all my meals for free  
> I think I'm being shunned by my feet again...”

Geralt never knew what prompted him to draw nearer, but he circled the man to get a better view. He took in the cheeks round with baby fat, the long dark eyelashes, the pink lips in motion. His brunette hair made itself known along his jawline as well, hints of missed stubble, and peeking out the V of his shirt. He was slender and slightly ethereal seeming, like a faun or fairy.

> “It's not a homeless life for me  
> It's just I'm home less than I'd like to be…”

He sang the couplet on repeat a few times. Keeping his head bent, he raised his voice in a mournful refrain.

> “When I feel cold  
> You keep me warm  
> And I'm not looking for some loose change  
> Just wanna find a true mate who wants to be my duvet...”

Then, as if aware of his audience the whole time, the busker raised his gaze and winked at Geralt. A flush rising to his cheeks, Geralt walked with purpose to pass him. But, he couldn’t in good conscience go without donating, so he dropped a few coins into the busker’s open guitar case.

Quick, before his next chorus, the man said, “Cheers, gorgeous.” Then he carried on with the song and Geralt went on with his day and, just like now, couldn’t stop thinking about the man.

It had been a few more days like that, of Geralt listening to a song and leaving change, before the busker said, “At this point, you’ve already paid for a pint, why don’t we go for a drink?” Geralt had chuckled, thinking it a joke, and moved on.

The next day it was, “I’d rather have your number,” and the day after, “Your name would do, really, anything at this point.” It was the slight desperation that made him finally answer.

“Yours first,” Geralt had mumbled.

The busker did an odd flourishing bow. “The name is Jaskier, mate, pleased to finally meet you properly.”

“Geralt,” He grunted, then tossed a coin and moved on.

It was soon after that that things changed.

“Geralt!” Jaskier greeted him, practically buzzing with excitement or nerves, Geralt couldn’t tell which. “Don’t move along yet, I have something special for you.”

Geralt said, “What?” Based on his occupation, it didn’t seem like Jaskier had much in the way to give.

“I’ve been working on this for a bit,” explained Jaskier, and that was definitely nerves, “It’s not done yet, so don’t judge too harshly, alright?” He waited for some response, so Geralt nodded.

Jaskier looked around, in a way he probably thought was subtle. It was early yet, and the town sleepy on the weekend, so they were alone. Clearing his throat, Jaskier began to strum his guitar.

> [“My mind is a warrior, my heart is a foreigner](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=InZJSvCu3Cw)  
> My eyes are the color of red like a sunset  
> I'll never keep it bottled up and left to the hands of the coroner  
> Be a true heart not a follower, we're not done yet now...”

Oh, Geralt thought with a lump in his stomach, almost like dread mixed with anticipation. 

> “I see it in your movements tonight  
> If we should ever do this right  
> I'm never gonna let you down  
> Oh I'll never let you down...”

Jaskier didn’t let his eyes fall from Geralt’s all the while he sang. His hands moved expertly over his instrument as he serenaded the other man.

> “Now keep it on the down low  
> And I'll keep you around so I'll know  
> That I'll never let you down  
> I'll never let you down...”

He was beautiful at his most vulnerable, knowing Geralt could choose to walk away, or worse. The music came to a sudden stop, but Geralt hardly noticed.

“I haven’t really worked out the rest,” Jaskier babbled, “I think it’s gonna have more comparisons to school, and instrumentation, you know, the heart as a guitar. Playing with my heart strings, that’s something, I think. What did you think, Geralt? Tell me honestly, I can take it.”

Geralt stepped forward, his hand cupping the back of Jaskier’s neck, and kissed him quickly. He’d never been good with his words, actions he could do better. So he kissed Jaskier’s sweet pink lips and then backed off.

“Oh,” Jaskier managed to say softly, reaching up to touch his mouth, “I guess that means you liked it?”

“I don’t have a phone,” Geralt said, “But I’m staying a block away. Come with me.”

Except Jaskier boggled. “How d’you not have a phone? I’m shit poor and even I have a mobile. It’s, like, a lifeline in this day and age.”

And Geralt had turned and barked, “Are you coming or not?” Luckily, he’d heard Jaskier scrambling to pack up his guitar, and he’d smirked to himself until the musician caught up with him.

* * *

Geralt manages not to let thoughts of Jaskier drive him to total distraction. He takes a phone meeting with Triss to discuss a script she’d sent him (he was passing on it, he couldn’t see himself as a romantic lead). He goes to a (thankfully) brief interview for a magazine, so the focus is on his fashion and hair team rather than himself. He can relax into the part he’s playing, making the interviewer laugh, following the photographer’s instructions. Someone must’ve tipped the paparazzi because as he leaves the familiar flashes go off in his eyes. Geralt raises his hand as if in greeting, to shield his eyes.

This part of the job is a necessary evil. Or so he tells himself.

When he’s back home he goes to his workout studio and hits the bench. They’re not scheduled to resume filming for _The Witcher_ series for another three months, but he’s not about to lose his physique. He knows his body is his main currency, and he won’t give it up.

 _One beer won’t ruin that dainty figure,_ he remembers suddenly, and breathes out a gust of air as he sets the weight back on the rack.

Jaskier, oh, he’d been wonderful last night. He was awkward, true, but still sweet and eager to please as he’d been years ago. His songs had gotten better, that was for sure. Geralt had felt twinges of jealousy throughout songs of wild nights and old loves, and another part had been hoping to hear himself described in one of those songs. Except there was always a detail off, the eye color or hair, or something they had never done, like dancing. They should have danced.

And the last song, that had been revelatory. He’d seen the busker again, desperate for attention, throwing his vulnerability out into the world for a few quarters or pence at a time. He saw the kid of 21 that he’d known then, the one who ate his food ravenously and shivered under his blankets, and all the while pretended he wasn’t starving or homeless. Geralt had been able to help then, help with his hands and mouth and body along with food and a place to sleep.

Until the match was over and there was another one lined up in another city. And it was time to move on.

Foolish, what he’d done in the bathroom. He didn’t even know if Jaskier was single. He could’ve married one of the girls in his songs, for all Geralt knew. But for a moment, biting marks into the musician’s throat, he could pretend. _Mine,_ he’d thought, as he had back in Middle-of-Nowhere, Ireland. _Mine._

Except it wasn’t true, and Geralt knew that. He wondered…

There was a laptop somewhere in the house. Geralt never used it, Triss had someone to manage his emails for him, and what else was a laptop for? But now Geralt digs it out from a cabinet in his living room and turns it on.

He might be a luddite, but even he can google.

Jaskier’s name turns up a youtube page, and Geralt clicks it eagerly. There's so many songs. Some of the titles are familiar from last night, and some from years ago. _Homeless_ is one, and he clicks the photo of Jaskier and his guitar.

“Okay,” The tinny and chipper sound of Jaskier says, “This is an oldie, but a goodie. Made several pounds on this one back in the day. Hope you enjoy it. Don’t forget to like and subscribe, and a link to my album is in the description.” Geralt doesn't fully understand that bit, but he listens as Jaskier starts to play. It's the one that made him stop the first time. Slightly more polished and fine-tuned than it had been then, though no less meaningful. Geralt closes his eyes and listens.

He goes through several songs (something called ‘auto-play’ keeps providing them) when he hears, “My mind is a warrior, my heart is a foreigner…” It's his song. Geralt sighes as the familiar verse fades into a new chorus.

> [“You're strumming on my heart strings](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=InZJSvCu3Cw)  
> Like you were a grade 8 but I've never felt this way  
> I'll pick your feet up off of the ground  
> And never ever let you down  
> You're strumming on my heart strings  
> Like you were a grade 8 but I've never felt this way  
> I'll pick your feet up off of the ground  
> And never ever let you down...”

And then… the next song is called _Stupid_.

“Triss,” Geralt says into the phone once the song is done, “Can you give me that musician’s number?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The songs are Homeless and Grade 8 by Ed Sheeran.
> 
> I'm so happy with the response the first chapter garnered, I knew I had to continue this. I have no idea how many chapters this will be, so we'll find out together. This chapter is sort of dedicated to eLOCIn, who asked how Geralt and Jaskier met. I love reading comments for inspiration, so thank you so much!


	3. Stupid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Look, I’m not interested in a new credit card or a cruise, alright?” Jaskier snaps into the phone.
> 
> “It’s me.”

Jaskier tries not to hope. He fails immediately.

“How would he even get in touch with you,” Jaskier grumbles to himself as he eats his dinner after a long, lonely day. “Mr. I-don’t-have-a-phone. Yeah right. Shouldn’t’ve believed him then, just made for a clean break and easy getaway. ‘Sides, you didn’t exactly have a chance to give him _your_ number. Not while you were jacking him off practically in your place of business...”

Except, of course, this is LA, and for certain people, anything is possible.

His phone rings, and the caller ID is blocked. Jaskier frowns down at it and hits ignore. A moment passes, and it rings again. Ignore. Rings again.

“Look, I’m not interested in a new credit card or a cruise, alright?” Jaskier snaps into the phone.

“It’s me,” says a voice so low it almost sounds like static. When Jaskier is silent, the voice adds, “Geralt.”

“No, yeah, I know it’s… How did you get my number?” He asks, dumbfounded.

“My agent had it. You spoke to Triss.” There’s a strained pause. “I’m sorry if it’s an invasion of privacy. We ended things abruptly.” Tacked on fast, “In the bathroom.”

“I thought that’s your MO,” Jaskier quips and then cringes. “Sorry, I didn’t mean that. I can’t believe you have a phone, _and_ you got a hold of my number, _and_ you’re calling me right now. It doesn’t feel real.”

Hesitantly, “Is it… good?”

“Yeah, yes, it’s good,” Jaskier rushes to assure him.

“You asked me to your place,” Geralt says, as if to remind him, as if he could forget, “And I wish I could’ve gone. But I can’t be seen… There are photographers who follow me, and fans who would be cruel if they thought… I don’t know how to say this, Jaskier.”

“Oh,” says Jaskier, “like, you can’t be seen with me?”

“If someone saw us together, if they took a picture, and I looked at you the way I do,” _What way_ , Jaskier wants desperately to ask, _what way is that_ , “My career could be seriously jeopardized.”

“I understand,” Jaskier says, “But then, I guess I don’t understand why you’re calling? Is it just to tell me ‘thanks, but no thanks’?”

“No, I’m… I can’t be seen going to your place, but you could come here. I have security, they patrol the grounds, and I could send a car for you.” _Security_ , Jaskier repeats dazedly in his head, _grounds_ , _car_.

“Erm, why?”

“To have dinner with me.”

“Oh, okay.” Jaskier hears a soft sigh on the other end of the line. “Wait, I’ll repeat, why? What’s this dinner for, exactly?” A difficult thought occurs to him, and he says, “You know, I’m not the starving artist I used to be, you don’t have to provide for me.”

“I know that,” Geralt snaps back. “It’s just dinner.” Then, in a more controlled voice, “I don’t like leaving things as we did. Would you come over so we can talk?”

Jaskier knows he should say no. Geralt has all but said things can’t work between them. He’s the manly action hero, third sexiest in the world, and he can’t let on to the public that he might like men. All this dinner would achieve is Geralt thoughtfully rejecting him, instead of leaving one day and not being in touch for a decade.

Still, he’s selfish, and a little stupid, and he’ll take the time with Geralt that he can get, even if it’s sure to break his heart again.

“Yes,” replies Jaskier, “I’ll come.”

He provides his address and they arrange to meet the next night. Everything about it feels clandestine and strange, like it’s someone else’s life, someone far more interesting than Jaskier. They hang up, Geralt’s low, “Goodnight,” lingering in his ears.

* * *

He runs through his day with anticipation hanging over him. He spends more time playing his guitar than practicing, needing the comfort of the strings, and can’t focus on writing. The lyrics that come to him are harbingers of doom, not the romantic ballads his fans love him for. Jaskier can’t subject his audience to his anxiety attacks.

He changes his outfit five times and tries parting his hair on the other side before giving up. It truly doesn’t matter what he wears or how he looks. Whatever will happen will happen regardless.

The shiny black town car is too early, and Jaskier struggles to get his boots on and hop out the door. He wishes he had an excuse to bring his guitar; he’s aware he’s a lot like a toddler with a blanky, but there’s not much he can do to stop it. The car’s interior is so plush, he hardly wants to sit in it. The driver has a partition, and offers Jaskier bottled water before rolling it up. Damn, that’s fancy.

Jaskier isn’t wholly familiar with all of LA’s neighborhoods and he’s definitely never had occasion to drive these glamorous roads. All the houses are spaced far apart with high walls or hedges to obscure them. They’re also _literally_ higher up then the people below as the car winds up the hills. Jaskier stares with his nose pressed to the window. He wonders if any of them can sense that a plebeian is infiltrating their midst.

The car slows to a stop outside a gated house, and Jaskier’s nerves ratchet up. The driver speaks into an intercom, and the big gate opens. They follow the driveway and Jaskier gets a view of the house. Rather than a mess of concrete and glass like he pictured a lot of these mansions to be, this has a rustic touch, despite its size. With real wood plank walls, it’s more like a multi-level ranch house. Warm orange lights pour out the tall windows and illuminate the well-kept, natural lawn, with bushes and trees rather than just a bed of grass. It beckons him in because it feels like Geralt himself.

They pull up in front and the driver hops out to open his door. Jaskier stammers his thanks.

The front door opens and Jaskier’s breath catches. Framed by the golden light, Geralt stands with his arms crossed, a foreboding figure.

Yet he says, “Jaskier,” with warmth and for a moment Jaskier forgets that he’s filthy rich and famous. It’s just them, again.

“Hi,” He waves weakly. “Nice place you’ve got here.”

* * *

They eat lamb curry and drink a pinot noir that probably cost more than his rent. Jaskier is so tempted to ask where the food came from, but he’s afraid the answer is ‘personal chef’, so he refrains. They’re eating on a white leather sofa and Geralt doesn’t seem to see anything _wrong_ with that. There’s a fireplace crackling merrily away and Jaskier is so tense he wants to throw himself in it.

“What’s wrong?” Asks Geralt once he’s eaten his food and Jaskier is only halfway through. “Do you not like it? I can get you something else.”

“No, no, no,” Jaskier babbles, “This is wonderful. Extravagant, even. My compliments to the, you know, whoever made it. And your couch is equally lovely and impeccable and it would be a shame if something ruined it. That sounded like I’m a gangster planning to extort you, can you tell whatever security is listening that I didn’t mean it like that?”

Geralt has this deep furrow in his brow. “No one can hear us. Are you alright?”

Jaskier takes a deep breath, and says, “You’re super rich and it’s weird.” Geralt looks around as if taking in his interior decorating for the first time. His gaze lingers on the abstract painting in the living room that surely fetched a pretty penny.

“Oh,” He says quietly, “Sorry.”

Jaskier is an asshole. “No, please, you’re fine. I’m the one who’s nervous.”

Geralt looks at him again. “Would you rather sit outside? Would that make you more comfortable?” That’s possible, he thinks perking up.

Until Geralt leads him outside and Jaskier wilts. “You have a pool. Of course you do.”

“Sorry,” Geralt apologizes again, and every time it’s like Jaskier’s kicked a puppy.

He looks around the backyard (which is such an understatement) and walks up to the pool’s edge. “It’s a nice night,” He says, and sits to pull off his boots. Socks come next, and then Jaskier dangles his feet into the pool. It’s heated. Duh. So it’s perfect. Jaskier pats the spot next to him and hears Geralt chuckle.

Geralt joins him in soaking his feet, and they sit in silence for a moment, the only sounds the water lapping and crickets. It is doing wonders to calm Jaskier down. With his back to the house, it’s only the two of them in the world, and no weird societal expectations. Geralt is backlit by warm light, setting his white hair ablaze around his shoulders, his hazel eyes glinting in the low light. Jaskier wants to lean into his shoulder, but though he’s relaxed, he’s not _that_ relaxed.

“I heard the song,” says Geralt out of nowhere. Jaskier looks at him, uncomprehending. “It’s your most popular, but you didn’t play it at the Purple Hare. Why not?”

“Which song would this be?”

“ _Stupid_.”

Jaskier gulps. “Ah. That one.”

Geralt speaks slowly, deliberately, looking down at their feet. “I don’t want to seem arrogant, but it felt—”

“Yeah, yeah,” interrupts Jaskier with a sigh, “It’s about you.” The song wasn’t an ode to white hair and bulging muscles. It was the emotion of it, raw and sardonic, that reflected how he’d felt about the other man.

“Did you mean it?” Geralt asks.

> _[If you weren't so stupid](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1hww3n1cqnM)  
> _ _I could have loved you  
> _ _And if you weren't so stupid  
> _ _But you're pretty stupid_

“Of course not, I don’t think you’re stupid, not at all. I was angry, and hurt, and writing that made me feel better.”

“I know. I meant the rest of it.”

> _But let's not  
> _ _Be friends  
> _ _Or else this'll never end  
> _ _Let's not  
> _ _Be friends  
> _ _For sure, for sure_

“I think… I mean… you didn’t have a phone, Geralt. And you just left. There wasn’t even a discussion of, you know, keeping in touch.”

“I said goodbye.”

Jaskier leans back and shuts his eyes. “Exactly...”

> _And if you weren't so ugly I could've loved you  
> _ _It's something I tell myself when down  
> _ _To get high  
> _ _Lord  
> _ _If you made me a coffee I could've loved you  
> _ _And I'd make you hot chocolate  
> _ _And anything you wanted_

“...I knew at the start it was just a bit of fun for you. But what can I say, I’m a romantic.”

“You think you could’ve fallen in love with me if I hadn’t left?”

“Mate, I was already halfway there.”

> _We'd adopt, we'd have dogs  
> _ _I'd have all the things he's got  
> _ _But I'm not_

After a moment to ruminate on that, Geralt asks, “Do you think we could be friends now?” Jaskier bites his lip. There’s no way to make this sound good.

“No. I don’t think we can.” Geralt nods as if he expected that. “I think if we try we’ll end up fucking like we did in that bathroom.”

“Is that what you want?”

“What I want is…” Jaskier shakes his head. It feels like he’s being interrogated. “What about Yennefer? Aren’t you two together?”

“We’re partners,” Geralt says plainly.

“That’s kind of what I’m asking.”

“It’s work. Once or twice we let it spill over into real life, and it didn’t go well. It’s too complicated. We know we work best as scene partners and that’s it.”

“But you do have chemistry.” He presses, and Geralt meets his gaze.

“And we have history, Jaskier.” Geralt lays his hand over his. Everything in him melts. Smooth motherfucker.

Jaskier sighs, soft and breathy. “Do you want…?”

Geralt turns it around on him. “Do you?”

That's the million dollar question. What he wants and what he thinks he's allowed to have are entirely different things. He hasn't forgotten the hoodie pulled low over Geralt's face, or the photos of him with a dazzling woman on his arm, or the incredibly intimidating status beacon behind them. The heated pool is reminder enough. And there's things that 32-year-old-Jaskier wants that 21-year-old-Jaskier would have found absolutely boring, like stability and trust. But there's also a sense that he could let down 21-year-old-Jaskier right now and maybe he owes something to that heartbroken boy.

“Well someone is going to have to go out on a limb here, so, yes,” Jaskier declares recklessly, “I want to try again.”

Geralt smiles wolfishly, dropping his eyes to Jaskier’s mouth. “Me too,” He says and leans in.

“Oh this is so stupid, isn’t it,” Jaskier whispers before their lips can meet.

Geralt laughs against his mouth, “You’d know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song is Stupid by Brendan Maclean. [This](https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/5474-Jed-Smith-Rd-Hidden-Hills-CA-91302/19883113_zpid/) is the house I'm picturing as Geralt's.
> 
> Wow, I'm really surprised I was able to write this so fast. Must be all your kind comments ;)
> 
> I've labeled this as complete for now because if I do add some chapters about their established relationship (the hidden nature of it, coming out, Jaskier's life changing) I want to give it more review before posting.


	4. Leaving

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “How can I cheat when there are no rules?”

“Would you look at that view.” At the height of his hyperextension, Geralt turns his head from the large bay window to see Jaskier gazing at his ass.

He grunts, “Don’t make me laugh, I’ll lose my core tension.” The early light filtering into his workout room does his sleepy-eyed boyfriend many favors. Geralt has to tear his eyes away to look forward as he completes the rep. Without seeing him, he can still feel Jaskier’s appreciation. It’s gratifying as he continues flexing his glutes to pull himself up, and down, and up, and down…

“Can’t have that, not when your whole core’s so lovely and firm,” Jaskier manages to make that sound incredibly dirty. Geralt’s lost his count and gives up, just this once, so he can maneuver himself to standing position. “Oh _please_ ,” says Jaskier, “Don’t stop on my account.”

“I tried not to wake you,” Geralt says. It isn’t quite an apology, he still struggles with ‘using his words’, but it’s in the same vein. Jaskier takes it as such, wrapping his arms around his waist.

“It’s alright, really, otherwise I’d miss the show. Wow, you’re moist,” He remarks, pulling his hands away from Geralt’s back, “That’s disgusting.” Now that he’s not exercising Geralt is free to chuckle and drop a kiss on his boyfriend’s hair.

Three months they’d been together, or back together; the semantics were hard to parse. Geralt can’t remember a time when he’s been happier. It seems like all aspects of his life are finally aligned. There’s only a week left until he returns to working on the next Witcher installment. Triss has told him exciting things about the direction of the script. It’ll be good to work closely with Yennefer again. And when he comes home from filming, Jaskier will be waiting.

He and Jaskier had tried to take it slow, at first. Considering they fucked on their first official date, the plan had needed adjustment. Now, more days than not, Jaskier is in Geralt’s home when he wakes up and when he goes to sleep. There’s a spare toothbrush by the sink. It’s everything he didn’t think he could have.

Like now, with Jaskier soft from sleep, in his boxers and one of Geralt’s plaid flannels, making a token protest while snuggling into his chest. He couldn’t even find the words to wish for this, once upon a time.

“Want me to do a fry up?” Jaskier asks, muffled into his workout tee.

Geralt sweeps his hand up and down his back. “That’s alright, you seem tired.”

“Eagle eyes, that’s you,” He mumbles.

“Besides,” Geralt adds, reluctantly dropping his arms, “I haven’t finished.”

Jaskier looks up with more energy, “Ooh, do you need me to sit on your back while you do push ups? I am extremely available for that.”

Laughing outright, Geralt moves to the weight rack and selects two 20 pound dumbbells. As he starts his next set of shoulder raises, he replies, “Maybe when I was younger, still fighting regularly, I could’ve done that. Now I’d only embarrass myself.”

“I can’t tell if you’re putting yourself down, or if that’s some dig about my weight,” Jaskier teases.

“Shut up,” Geralt grunts, annoyed at his own flush. His boyfriend is so masterful with words, so often it feels like they’re sparring, and he loses.

“Maybe I can help somehow,” Jaskier says as he ducks under Geralt’s extended arm and plaster himself to his front. He kisses the juncture of his jaw and neck, right where the tendons are straining. Geralt grunts. Impishly, Jaskier asks, “Like that?”

“You’re distracting me,” He answers. He doesn’t stop his reps.

“I can’t be distracting you that much.” Another kiss, closer to his ear. “You’re still going.” His control slips, the weight dipping too low, when Jaskier bites his earlobe.

“That’s cheating.”

“How can I cheat when there are no rules?” Jaskier kisses his way across his stubbled cheek to, finally, reach his mouth, except he dances away when Geralt tries to kiss him properly. “Are you done yet?”

Growling, Geralt carefully drops his weights. Immediately Jaskier backs away. “Get back here,” Geralt demands.

“Nope,” He says far too happily, “You were right, I am a distraction. Can’t have you slacking off right before production. You finish up, think I’ll have a lie in.” Geralt growls again and Jaskier scurries off, the faint sound of snickering trailing behind him. Damn it. Now he has to finish his sets with a semi.

By the time Geralt is done with his workout routine, he’s boiling with lust. He stalks to the bedroom and stops short in the doorway. Jaskier is naked above the sheets and leisurely touching himself. What a picture he makes with one hand stroking his flushed cock and the other disappearing beneath his raised thigh. His sultry eyes land on Geralt. It takes no time at all to shuck his gym clothes and lean over him.

Geralt snarls, “You couldn’t wait for me?” He takes over where Jaskier’s fingers have opened himself up, finding him wet and relaxed.

“I really couldn’t,” sighs Jaskier, stretching his arms up and arching his back. He pushes himself onto Geralt’s fingers. “Fuck me.” It isn’t a demand or request, because there’s no doubt Geralt would oblige him. He says it like a reminder, a gentle nudge, an invitation. So he does.

Sinking into Jaskier’s body is like sinking into a warm bath. The world is calm as they move together, rhythmic and uncomplicated. They don’t rush to climax, Geralt for one is enjoying the journey, as they fuck in the morning sun. After what feels like many blissful hours of rocking, Jaskier begins to squirm and tug on his cock, so Geralt pulls out to reposition them. With Jaskier on his side, he hitches up his leg, and pushes in deeper. He fucks him harder now, finding the spot that makes Jaskier’s mouth fall open and stuttering songs pour out. It’s a litany of _fuck, yes, right there, perfect, don’t stop, so close_ that Geralt could sustain himself off of forever. When Jaskier spills onto the sheets, Geralt slows, and prepares to take his time. But panting, open-mouthed, Jaskier says, “Come on,” and brings him in for a blistering kiss. Half-hearted thoughts of slow fucking go right out his head, and he comes for a short eternity.

* * *

“There you are,” Triss announces, handing him a thick parcel. “ _Witcher 5_ , subtitle TBD.” His manager had called him into her office with a not-so-subtle hint that he’d be rewarded. Geralt eagerly opens the package to find the script within. There’s nothing like reading the scripts and discovering what’s in store for his characters. He’s as much a fan of the stories they tell as the self-proclaimed geeks on the internet.

As Triss settles into her seat behind her desk, she adds, “Obviously it’s very hush-hush. No showing anyone, not even her.”

Geralt squints at her. “Who? Yen?”

Innocently Triss cocks her head. “Your super secret girlfriend. The one you’ve rung up an exorbitant bill ferrying to and from your house.” Ah, right. He should’ve known there’d be no hiding it from her. Triss managed his finances on top of every other aspect of his career.

“There’s no girl.” Then with a sour twist to his mouth, he admits, “I am seeing someone, but… not a girl.”

She sits quietly, examining him for a moment. Then Triss smiles. “Strange,” She says, a little sadly, “I hadn’t realized we’d have to have this talk.”

Geralt grunts, “No talk necessary.”

“Are you saying the relationship isn’t serious?” Triss raises her brows, waiting for his reply, but Geralt struggles. That wasn’t a fair question. He had hardly had that talk with Jaskier. Geralt certainly feels seriously about him, and the way they fell into domesticity feels serious, and Jaskier’s eyes do serious things sometimes when they look at Geralt. But those are feelings, not words, and neither are his strong suit to begin with.

Finally, “It is.”

Thankfully, Triss doesn’t press, but nods and accepts this. “Then either we need to get on preemptive damage control or…” She shrugs. “Really that’s it.”

“There’s no damage to control,” Geralt insists with a spark of irritation. “He’s driven to my home. We stay in. No one sees us.”

“Oh,” says Triss, bright with sarcasm, “So he’s not so much a partner as your kept boy? God's sake, Geralt, you caveman.”

“What do you want me to say?” Geralt demands. One hand clenches and crumples a corner of the script. “We’re being careful and protecting my image.” Of course, when he says _my_ he means _your_ and Triss knows it. It’s her hard work that took him from taciturn stuntman to leading man. She taught him what to say and how to be the ‘heartthrob’ the world knows him as. And it’s this charming ideal, that every human being can lust after, that she works so hard to protect.

And yet somehow, she’s also a friend, which is clear when her gaze softens and loses her anger. “That isn’t sustainable, Geralt. You can keep him locked up in your home, but sooner or later he’ll want to leave. And when he does, well, he could make a lot of money selling his story.”

“Jaskier wouldn’t do that,” Geralt says like a reflex.

Triss beams suddenly. “Jaskier? As in the musician you had me call up months ago? My goodness, you were so _cute!_ ”

Another reflex, “Shut up.”

“No, I’m serious. Oh, I had no idea that pining schtick worked out for you!”

“This is why I didn’t tell you—”

“Aw, and you got his number from me! I’m the reason you two are together!”

“—I knew you’d be insufferable.”

“You know what that means, right? I get to be the Godmother.”

“Triss!” He hisses, scandalized. “Can we get back to you being against my relationship?”

Thoughtfully, Triss says, “No… I like this form of torture better. It’ll keep me entertained while I prep for the inevitable press storm. So, when can I meet him? Ooh, maybe Yen and I can corner him together, and reveal _all_ your dirty secrets.”

He has to laugh at that. “Try it, Jaskier would love that.”

Triss gives a genuine smile. “Good, maybe there’s hope for this trainwreck yet.”

* * *

The lights are on when Geralt gets home, meaning Jaskier is still here, or left and came back. He puts his keys in the dish by the door and enters slowly. There’s music in the living room, a living music, that he does not want to spook.

> [“Say so, say that you won’t go,”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C1CbyvPb6Rs) Jaskier sings quietly to himself without accompaniment.
> 
> “Say so, say that you won’t go  
> Say so, say that you won’t go…”

Geralt’s eyes fall closed. The words are blatantly melancholy, as is the gentle lilting melody. Has Jaskier been unhappy? Waiting for their relationship to end? Not wanting it to but… expectant.

> “Why do I feel alone sometimes  
> When I just want to make you feel  
> I see every conversation and I know that it was real  
> You're in the clear, you're leaving here  
> You feel so far, you feel so real...”

There’s a pain in his chest that distracts him as Jaskier huffs and says normally, “Can’t use real twice, that’s so lazy.”

Why shouldn’t he be unhappy, Geralt realizes. He’s been hiding him away like a shameful secret. And Jaskier should be no one’s secret. Jaskier is a loving partner, a musical savant, and a good person who ought to be celebrated.

Geralt has been stupid. Worse, he’s been unintentionally cruel.

He tiptoes backwards, lifts his keys, and lets them jangle back into the bowl. At once, Jaskier calls, “Geralt? You home?”

“It’s me.” He walks slowly into the living room. Jaskier is sprawled over the white sofa, one leg thrown over its back. He’s comfortable in the space now, though it took time to achieve. He’d worked hard to accept that Geralt cared more about him than the material objects in his home.

With a curious furrow in his brow, Jaskier says, “I didn’t hear the door."

“I’m not a barbarian,” He replies, sounding absurdly fond to his own ears, “I don’t go around slamming doors for no reason.”

Jaskier seems to take this explanation, as he sits up and teases, “But I like when you’re a brute.” Then he reconsiders and adds, “Sometimes.”

Geralt joins him on the sofa, giving him a peck in hello. “Mm,” He hums, sniffing. Jaskier hasn’t showered recently, he’s wearing sweatpants, and he smells richly of himself. Probably he didn’t leave the house today. _Locked up_ , Triss had said. “Anything you want for dinner?” He asks after a moment.

“You know, I wasn’t hungry until you said that,” Jaskier says, putting a hand over his stomach, “But now I’m starving. There’s that sushi place, I know I’ve gone mad over them lately, I just can’t get enough. What’re you hungry for? Don’t let me dictate everything.”

Like a stroke of genius, Geralt says, “What if we went out?”

There’s a long moment of silence. Jaskier gapes at him. Finally he laughs a little uneasily. “Uh, what?”

More and more he’s convinced this is the right idea. “Let’s go out for dinner. Get dressed.”

“I… We’ve never…” Jaskier stumbles over his words, a blush rising to his cheeks. He places a hand over his. “Geralt, are you sure? I’m not asking you to risk anything, I’m fine staying, well, like we have been.”

That settles it. He repeats more forcefully. “Get. Dressed.”

Jaskier throws his hands up. “How should I dress? I don’t know if we’re going somewhere nice? Is this like black tie, or Panda Express?”

“There’s a lot in between.”

“Can we swing by mine? I know I’ve got some clothes mixed in with yours here, but there’s nothing I’d be comfortable showing up in a rag mag in.”

“Relax. At least go put on jeans.”

Jaskier flips him the bird as he scrambles for the bedroom. Smiling to himself, Geralt pulls his phone from his pocket.

“Triss. I’m taking him out to dinner.” While he hadn’t formed any ideas how she’d react, Triss still surprises him by laughing outright.

“Look who’s serious now,” She crows through the tinny connection. “It was me that talked sense into you, wasn’t it?”

With affection he says, “Shut up. Can you arrange a quiet table for us somewhere? Nothing intimidating. Simple.”

“Fine, I’ll find just the thing on zero notice. Honestly, you’re lucky I’m so good at this.”

“I know,” He admits, with a long-suffering sigh.

“I’ll text you the details. And now you have to name the first born after me too.”

“Not happening,” He grunts, and hangs up on her noise of protest. It’s good timing as Jaskier skids into the room on his socks. He gestures at himself, his tight-fit jeans, his t-shirt and vest.

“What’d'ya think? Will it do?”

Honestly, Geralt says, “You look good.”

“Good,” Jaskier scoffs, “ _Good_ , he says. I can’t be seen with Geralt bloody Rivia looking just _good_.” Geralt shakes his head in exasperation, which Jaskier misinterprets. “No, don’t do that, you can’t change your mind now.” Then he stops short and says, “No, wait, obviously you can. This is your life we’re talking about, and if you’re not comfortable—”

“I’d be more comfortable if you stopped talking.”

“Right, okay,” He runs a hand through his hair and then jumps. “Hair! I haven’t got any product here, Geralt! I must look like a teen with a bowl cut!”

“You don’t—” But his reassurance is discarded as Jaskier sprints for the bathroom. Walking softly, he follows, and leans in the doorway. Jaskier is looking in the mirror, a can of hairspray in one hand, the other tugging his brown mop into artful disarray.

He’s muttering, “I mean, it’s not gonna be great, but we can make it work in a pinch. Eyeliner, now that would be something. Not full Nikki Sixx of course, but a dash of punk, people can respect that. Fuck.” He splashes some water on his fingers and runs them through the back. He sprays the whole thing in short bursts, shaking out his hair, and pushing up his fringe.

Oh, Geralt realizes as he stands there watching, his heart beating slow, he’s in love.

“At least I’m not spotty,” Jaskier is still rambling as he finally caps the hairspray, tilting his face this way and that. “On short notice, I think it’s as good as it’s gonna be.” He looks at Geralt and says, “So, are you prepared to be seen with me?”

Geralt smiles slowly. “Yes. Are you?”

Jaskier, of course, misses the note of grandeur in his voice. “I mean, obviously, you don’t even push a comb through that mess and you’re ready to go. Hours in hair and makeup most days, and on your off hours you’re happier in a stained shirt and greasy hair. Ugh, the public loves you for it all the—Mmf.”

Geralt couldn’t stand not kissing the man he loved for a moment longer. He’d crossed the room and pressed Jaskier into the sink. His hands cradling Jaskier’s cheeks, he keeps him still, so he can kiss him deeply, his tongue caressing deep, behind his teeth and over his soft palate. Jaskier moans, his hands sliding under Geralt’s shirt.

They would’ve surely started fucking had Geralt’s phone not chimed out a text message alert. He reluctantly pulls back. Jaskier, his pupils beautiful and black, grips the hem of his shirt tight.

“Are you sure we need to leave?” He asks breathlessly.

Geralt tugs teasingly at a lock of hair over Jaskier’s eye. “We can’t let this work go to waste.”

All at once Jaskier comes back into himself, as he squawks, “Bastard!” He twists back to the mirror to check his hair, fiddling with it helplessly.

“Come on,” Geralt huffs out a chuckle, “Let’s go out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I definitely have one more chapter in me. Thank you so much for the encouraging reviews, it's been incredible seeing the love pour in. I don't post fanfic that often, so this is very special for me.
> 
> [This](https://youtu.be/tSzlgybdkFA?t=168) is the exercise Geralt is doing when Jaskier walks in. And [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C1CbyvPb6Rs) is the song Jaskier is trying to compose when Geralt walks in.


	5. Pop Song

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With a grin that’s a bearing of teeth, Jaskier says, “I’m pansexual, actually.” 

The lights are bright and hot and everything as Jaskier sways and sings.

> ["I've been](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3Pu49O1xH7M)  
> Staring at the ceiling  
> Searching  
> For some word that rhymes with how I’m feeling…"

The crowd sings along, they know his work by now, a wave of sound blasted back to him.

> "Someone feed the fishes  
> Someone clean my car  
> I can’t keep up on the dishes  
> While I wish upon a star  
> Someone save my soul  
> I'm a slave to rock and roll..."

Sweat drips down his neck but Jaskier is lost in the lyrics. He lets the words ring out like heavenly bells, an otherworldly force channeled through his windpipe.

> "Please, politicians, preachers pray  
> Give us wisdom, teach us  
> Right from wrong, oh yeah  
> I'm too busy trying to write a pop song
> 
> Please, Mother Nature's on her knees  
> Read the paper, see what's going on  
> What's going on  
> I'm too busy trying to write a pop song..."

There’s a roar as the notes come to a wavering close. The audience bounces like an undulating mass. Jaskier bows left, right, and center. He pushes his fringe back from where it’s plastered to his forehead. 

“Thank you so much!” He calls out to The Purple Hare. “You’re a magnificent audience, I absolutely adore you!” The love returns in fifty-odd voices. It’s a high rushing through his bloodstream, and he steps off the stage to a knot of people extending their hands. He shakes as many as he can on his way to the bathroom. Jaskier quickly freshens up and then stays in the bathroom just breathing. Let the clamor die down, he thinks, a heady thought.

A year ago he would have said he was content with his little cult following, the dozen or so faces he recognized at every gig. It’s something entirely different to have witnessed his audience grow. He’s not sure what did it, but gradually The Purple Hare would fill and fill until the establishment had to hire a bouncer on nights Jaskier played to turn people away. His standing gig was in jeopardy because, as the owner said, he should really be booking larger venues. Needless to say, Jaskier had no idea how to go about doing that.

When it feels like enough time has passed, Jaskier braves the bar room. A few of his fans holler and wave, and he lifts his hand to acknowledge them. He crosses to the bar and orders a beer to cool himself off.

A hulking figure in a hoodie appears at his elbow.

Geralt mumbles, “You were great.”

“Thanks,” He cheerses to his boyfriend, who’s drinking water, and continues contemplating. “You haven’t,” Jaskier says slowly, still puzzling, “You haven’t posted anything about me or my gigs on social media, right?”

“I don’t have social media,” Geralt says, then rephrases, “Triss has a social media team, I don’t touch it.”

“Course not,” says Jaskier. He glances over his shoulder at the people still milling about, some of whom shoot him furtive looks. Geralt tugs anxiously on the strings of his hood.

It’s been surreal after that first date out. For months they have lived in a twilight of infamy. There are photographs of them hitting the tabloids, but they’re of Geralt walking a careful foot apart from him. Most people probably can’t tell they even know each other. By the time the paparazzi make themselves known, Geralt is closed off, like he’s untouchable.

There haven’t been any salacious headlines like “Secret Boyfriend!” Jaskier wishes he were a better person, wishes he wasn’t partly disappointed.

He hears a throat clear, and looks up at a tall woman with a severe face. She holds out a hand, which Jaskier shakes instinctively, only to be pricked by the corner of a business card.

“Tissaia,” The woman introduces herself, her voice clipped, “Of Aretuza Records. A pleasure.”

“Right, yes it is,” Jaskier stammers, glancing between the card and her face. It reads, essentially, what she just said.

“I very much enjoyed your performance,” Tissaia goes on. “The love songs are trite but well constructed, though I particularly liked your last song. It was humorous.” She looks like a woman who’s never laughed in her life.

“Thank you, thank you so much.” Floundering, he asks, “Did you see the merch table? I put out an album independently last year, would you like to have it?”

“Yes, I would.” Tissaia turns on a dime and stalks to the merch table. Jaskier rounds on Geralt and mouths, ‘Oh my God!’

Geralt smiles, “I told you. You’re talented.” He reaches up to push back Jaskier’s sweaty fringe again. “It’s about time you were noticed.”

“I…” Jaskier’s about to do something stupid, like say _I love you_ first. It’s been months and he keeps biting his tongue. At this point his hope is wavering that Geralt is going to say it. It’s not too much to want to hear it first, right? Jaskier is usually the one making himself vulnerable, but he feels vulnerable enough with Geralt. He can’t show this, the softest part of himself, without trusting that Geralt can be gentle with it.

He touches Geralt’s arm, and says again, “I…”

That’s when Tissaia returns. Her gaze cuts sharply to their points of contact, Geralt’s fingers in his hair, Jaskier’s hand on his forearm. For a moment, something shifts slightly in her face that makes her almost seem sad.

Then it’s gone. “Ah,” She says shortly, “I’m afraid I hadn’t understood. The pronouns in your songs are unclear. My label isn’t looking for gay artists right now.”

Jaskier cocks his head. There’s a bubble of righteous anger in his gut. It burbles up and raises a flush to his neck, his cheeks, his ears. Geralt covers his hand on his arm, but he says nothing, silent and permissive as he keeps his head low. With a grin that’s a bearing of teeth, Jaskier says, “I’m pansexual, actually.” 

She nods, fingernails tapping the CD case in her hands. “If this policy changes, I will be sure to let you know.”

He has her business card. She doesn’t have his number. She can’t contact him.

“Right,” He bites out. Wisely Tissaia leaves then. Jaskier can’t help flipping the bird to her back.

“Don’t let her ruin your night,” Geralt tells him, voice quiet, “You had an amazing performance.”

But Jaskier has the beginnings of true rage brewing with nowhere to go, so he snaps, “Some knight-errant you were.” If Geralt is surprised by his change of target, he doesn’t show it. The man is able to be calm at the most infuriating times.

“It didn’t have anything to do with me.”

Jaskier laughs unkindly. “It was my problem, then? My fault for being out? I’m just too _flamboyant_!” He waves a limp wrist. “Straights can smell the queer on me. Not like you, Butch.”

“Stop it,” says Geralt, “You’re not really angry at me.”

“Really, I’m not?” Jaskier pretends to consider this. “I suppose you _would_ know how I _really_ feel better than me.”

Geralt steals Jaskier’s beer, gulps gulps gulps it down, and says, “Let’s go home.”

 _Your home_ , he itches to spit. The haze of anger fades enough for his rational side to resist. There’s a worry that if he brings this up, he won’t be welcome in Geralt’s house again. He sighs out a lot of the tension of the last few minutes.

“Sorry,” He mutters, “Yeah, let’s go.”

* * *

“I must admit,” Yennefer says once Geralt is out of the room, “I knew he was good with his cock, but you’ve made real husband material out of him.”

Jaskier spits out his mouthful of wine. Thankfully it’s white, as it sprays all over the carpet.

“Yen!” Triss hisses, jumping up and, presumably, he hopes, going to fetch paper towels.

This comes at the end of what Jaskier thought was a delightful dinner party. Geralt doesn’t have many people he considers friends. There were only two people he dearly wanted Jaskier to meet: his manager Triss, and his work partner Yennefer. Although intimidated, obviously, Jaskier agreed. It was important to Geralt, and therefore to him, that Triss and Yennefer liked him.

So Triss and Yennefer arrived that night, and they’d had a decadent meal of Korean barbecue, and settled in with glasses of wine. They’d chatted about The Witcher 5, which was nearly out of post-production. Soon Yennefer and Geralt would need to be out on the press tour, which Triss would be busy arranging, while Jaskier waits at home. It was a depressing prospect that he’d avoided contemplating, but he smiled stiffly while Triss talked about arranging for lodging in Japan, Singapore, Sydney, and just about every romantic European city.

It was simply too easy to see why one could fall in love with Yennefer. She managed to be bold yet charming, pushing boundaries and then luring you to forgive her. And even if Geralt kept his arm on the back of Jaskier’s seat, it felt like it was her his eyes followed, and Jaskier couldn’t even blame him. She was objectively captivating. Though she hadn’t paid Jaskier too much direct attention, aside from the general ‘what do you do?’ question, her violet eyes weighed heavy upon him.

And then Geralt thoughtfully stepped out of the room to refill everyone’s water glasses, and Yennefer said… that.

Jaskier sputtered, wiping his mouth. “We’re not—I’m not—why would you…”

“What?” The actress said with a perfectly confused expression. “Surely he told you we fucked a few times?”

“Yes, he mentioned,” Jaskier says as Triss returns thankfully laden with paper towels. They both start mopping up the wine on the floor.

“Then what I said couldn’t have been too shocking.”

“Maybe we don’t bring up our friend’s…” Triss trails off her scolding, which makes Yennefer bark a laugh.

“Don’t play coy, Triss, you had him too.”

Jaskier stops. Triss does as well, looking at him from their close position.

“It,” She says in a high pitch, “It was a long time ago.”

That’s when Geralt reenters, balancing four waters in his arms. He pauses to take in the scene, Jaskier and Triss frozen on their hands and knees, Yennefer sitting back and sipping wine. He sighs.

“Yen, what’d you say?”

Mouth an O of mock outrage, Yennefer says, “You’ll find I was paying Jaskier a compliment. He has you very well trained. Civilized.”

Geralt’s shoulders draw up towards his ears, nearly tipping over a glass. He sets the glasses onto the table then leans down to touch Jaskier’s shoulder.

“Leave it,” He says to both him and Triss, “The cleaners will get it.” Slowly Triss unfolds herself and sits in her seat, looking regal yet ruffled. Jaskier pushes himself to his feet as well, staring at his boyfriend.

He says, “You didn’t say you’d slept with Triss.”

Geralt blinks. “I forgot.”

Triss laughs coldly. “Thank you for that.”

“I don’t… You’re my friend… it isn’t relevant.” The man looks wildly out of his depth, and Jaskier feels a twinge of pity for him, so he changes tack.

“For your information, Yennefer,” says Jaskier, studiously looking away from Geralt, “I didn’t mind the first part of your… statement. Lord knows I’ve slept with way more people than Geralt,” He chances a glance at his boyfriend and, finding a frown, says, “Maybe not _way_ more. I meant, I’m in no position to slut-shame.” Yennefer dips her head at that, intrigued. “It was… the other thing.”

And of course he’d been avoiding repeating it, so Yennefer asks, “Husband material?”

It’s Geralt’s turn to freeze.

Through grit teeth Jaskier hisses, “Yes, thank you.”

“Well, I mean, look around,” Yennefer waves her wine glass lackadaisically, “You’ve got this place looking less like a showroom and more like people live here.” Jaskier glances guiltily at his guitar in the corner, and the loose papers of rejected lyrics, and socks he’d missed cleaning up hidden beneath the couch. “And,” Yennefer continues, “There’s this whole dinner party thing to begin with. I’d never imagined Geralt telling me he wanted me to _meet someone_. It’s incredibly impressive. Never mind the dopey looks Ger gets thinking about you when we're supposed to be rehearsing.”

Bewildered, Jaskier asks, “How come your words sound nice but you sound like you hate me?”

Yennefer blinks serenely as she says, “Because my plastic surgeons couldn’t fix resting bitch voice.” Then, more terrifyingly, “If I hated you, you’d know.”

“I believe what Yennefer is _trying_ to say,” Triss says, sounding sweetly long-suffering, “Is that the two of you make a good couple.”

Yennefer scoffs. “If you want to be cute.” But she doesn’t disagree. 

“Oh,” Jaskier doesn’t mean to utter out loud. Violet, brown, and hazel eyes land on him. He adds, “You could’ve just said.”

Triss reaches over to rub Yennefer’s arm, saying, “Our starlet loves sowing chaos.” Strangely, Yennerfer allows the odd gesture, both patronizing and fond.

Later, once they’ve seen Yennefer and Triss off, and it’s just him and Geralt, Jaskier clears off the table. Geralt comes up behind him and asks, “Did she ruin it?”

“Who, Yen?” Jaskier replies, stalling. Ruined, probably not. The night had been equal parts uncomfortable and enjoyable.

Truthfully? Yennefer did disturb him. It wasn’t so much her bitchy comments as her… everything. Everything about her was alluring, it was impossible to believe Geralt wouldn’t want to be with her. If they were together, it would be easy, no sneaking around, no fear of being outed. Just two equally gorgeous people, like they were made for each other, traveling the world as they basked in deserved fame.

Against any better judgement, Jaskier asks, “Why didn’t it work out between you two?”

“I told you, it got complicated.”

“Well,” He retorts, turning from the table to face Geralt, standing a step closer than he expected, “I’m asking you to elaborate.”

Geralt breathes out through his nose. “You know I’m not good with words.”

Biting his lower lip, Jaskier says, “Show me then.”

For a moment, Geralt stands there with a furrow in his brow and a deep frown. Then he slams into Jaskier bodily, grabs him by the neck, and licks into his mouth. It’s furious and deep, like their first kiss in The Purple Hare bathroom, and his chest is unyielding as Jaskier grips him for support. One of Geralt’s hands dips immediately to his groin where Jaskier is soft, and rubs him intensely, coaxing a broken moan as blood rushes to the area. He’s not even half-hard when Geralt abruptly stops and pulls away.

“That,” He growls, “Was me and Yen.”

Hot, passionate, sexy… Jaskier shakes his head.

“I still don’t get it.”

“It’s what’s expected of me,” says Geralt. 

Before Jaskier can question that further, Geralt slides his hands sensually from his neck around his shoulders and back, and kisses him lightly. He lays gentle, teasing kisses upon Jaskier’s lips again and again and again. His embrace is comfortable, not crushing, and Jaskier sneaks his fingers up Geralt’s shirt to stroke his stomach. The kisses are maddeningly soft. No matter how Jaskier tries to press, Geralt keeps the caresses tender, pulling back each time until Jaskier whines. They separate, breathing together.

“And that’s us, is it?” Jaskier grumbles after a moment. “I’m a tease? Or am I shallow?”

“No,” says Geralt patiently, “You’re steady. Special. And I want more, over and over, as long as…” Words fail him, just when it was getting good, and Geralt kisses him again, lingering this time.

And Jaskier gets it. “I love you”

Geralt smiles, dipping to rest their foreheads together. He murmurs, “Me too.”

* * *

The day of the premiere dawns, the sky heavy with rainclouds, with Jaskier clinging to his boyfriend’s back. Geralt is checking the schedule Triss sent him on his phone. Nearly every minute of his day has been planned out, from 10am when the hair team arrives to the afterparty that Triss dictated he couldn’t leave until midnight. This moment in bed is their last bastion of freedom.

Something is buzzing in Jaskier’s mind. He wishes he could blame it on sleep or a hangover, but he’s wide awake and sober. But it’s there, like an itch, and he can’t keep it in.

“Can I come?” He asks recklessly.

Geralt stops fiddling with his phone. “What?”

More surely, Jaskier says, “I want to come.” He hadn’t realized how much he wanted this until he said it. But he can envision himself in a suit, sitting next to Geralt, in a vast, full theater, watching Geralt in costume on a massive screen.

“Why?” Geralt grunts, clearly wrong-footed. “These events are boring and annoying.”

“Because I’m proud of you and the work you’ve done?” He says it first as a question, but then he picks up steam. “Everyone who watches the film, none of them saw you come home exhausted and grumpy. None of them saw you working out to excess and dehydrating yourself for the shirtless scenes. I, if you’ll recall, was the one who rubbed chamomile oil into your aching muscles. I heard you muttering lines in your sleep. I got jostled awake nearly every morning at 4am when you had to leave. Why shouldn’t I come and support you?”

Geralt turns over in his arms. His eyes are unfairly attractive even while he frowns. Jaskier reaches up and runs a finger over the lines of his face.

“Premieres aren’t about the work. It’s about the press.”

“I’m not asking you to come out, you know I wouldn’t do that. That’s completely your journey.” At that Geralt opens his mouth. Not wanting to hear his excuses, Jaskier cuts him off. “Even if I just come as your friend, I’m fine with that.”

Geralt says with a raised brow, “No one would believe you’re my friend.”

Jaskier shuffles back. “Ouch,” He says, laying a hand over his heart. He’s playing it up because it genuinely hurts. Hasn't he been playing the part well enough when they're in public? Every time he resists touching his boyfriend it feels like he should be up for an Oscar.

Shaking his head, Geralt reaches for his arms, to keep him from retreating further. “I didn’t mean… Why is this so important to you?”

Jaskier shrugs one shoulder; he doesn’t know how to explain. “I want to be a part of your life.”

“You are,” says Geralt.

“All of your life.”

“You and I, the way we are at home, this is my life. The way I am in front of cameras is work. That’s a performance, not a person.” It's more than Geralt normally says on a difficult topic. It's clear he's making an effort. But it's not enough.

“Maybe I don’t understand,” admits Jaskier, feeling helpless, “My work is my life, and vice versa. I couldn’t try to separate them.”

“We’re different people.”

Suddenly no longer wanting to laze in bed, Jaskier rolls to sit at the edge of the bed. He rubs the back of his head, ruffling the no doubt atrocious bed-head, and mutters, “Yeah, clearly.”

From behind him he hears a tentative, “Are you upset with me?”

“Yes,” says Jaskier evenly, glancing over his shoulder, “I will be for a bit. Let me be mad?” Geralt nods solemnly, and Jaskier leans back to give him a sweet kiss in thanks. “I’m still really proud of you. Knock them dead.”

He gets up and starts assembling a rough outfit. “Come on,” objects Geralt, watching him, “You don’t need to leave.”

“You’ve got,” Jaskier checks his own phone on the bedside table, “Fifteen minutes until Kiera arrives to tame your mane. I’m gonna get out of your hair so she can get it perfect.” With a small, sad smile, he says, “Love you,” and goes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [This](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3Pu49O1xH7M) is the song Jaskier performs in this chapter, by Theo Katzman.
> 
> Wow, so this story just keeps getting away from me. Sorry I didn't deliver on their first date out, I thought it would be underwhelming reading two men pretending to be 'friends' at a fancy restaurant. Instead you got a dinner party with Yennefer, my favorite bitchy queen, and Triss, who I realize has more of her personality from the game (I've been playing Witcher 3 nonstop) than the bland show version.
> 
> Anyway, I think I have one more chapter in me, and more likely it will be from Jaskier's POV, rather than switching back to Geralt. Honestly I could've kept going in this chapter, but I would either have to cut it off at a quick saccharine ending, or the chapter would be much longer...


	6. I Am The Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For months he’s had it set up to alert him if the keywords “Geralt”, “Gay” or “Boyfriend” appear together, and now…

Foolishly he’d kept the night open, so while his boyfriend is walking the red carpet, Jaskier is reclined on his sofa, in his cramped apartment that’s built up a layer of dust, shoveling cheese puffs into his mouth like it’s a job. He’s decidedly avoiding checking the time and comparing it to Geralt’s schedule, but the light outside’s long faded into dusk, so he knows the premiere must be in full swing.

He’s listening to his favorite album of the moment on repeat, when his phone goes off. At first he ignores it, thinks maybe it’s one of his old mates; he’s been bad about keeping in touch, always has had a one-track mind when he’s in a relationship. Then the phone buzzes again, and he deigns to look at the lock screen.

It’s his Google Alert, forwarding him a page that reads “Geralt Rivia Comes Out as Gay?” Jaskier blinks down at it. For months he’s had it set up to alert him if the keywords “Geralt”, “Gay” or “Boyfriend” appear together, and now…

He clicks the link. It takes him to a video, hosted by a small music reporting channel. He’s read some of their articles before about up and coming bands, never spotting his own name among them. It’s surprising to see The Witcher logo and red carpet appear.

A pretty young interviewer holds a mic to her lips as she says, “We’re here asking the cast of the Witcher about their favorite genres and favorite bands!”

The video cuts abruptly, and Yennefer is standing there. “Oh I’m a huge fan of emo, hardcore, punk,” Yennefer is saying to the interviewer, sounding utterly charming and earnest. The interviewer looks a bit taken aback as she inquires further. “I’d say my favorite bands are The Used, The Misfits, with some Panic! and MCR mixed in there, yeah.”

The video cuts, and Jaskier jolts to see Geralt on screen. He knew it must be coming, and yet the person Geralt becomes in front of a camera is so different to the man he is at home, it’s startling, the transformation. His body language is open and easy going as he listens to the interviewer’s question.

“I’m actually dating a musician now,” says Geralt, and Jaskier’s heart stops. His breath catches, and there’s a rush in his ears.

It nearly drowns out the interviewer’s eager, “Oh really?”

“Yeah, he’s an independent artist,” Geralt continues, seemingly at ease, “He sings a lot of beautiful love songs.”

The interviewer is game as she coyly asks, “Are they all about you?”

“Not at all,” laughs Geralt, “And I’m incredibly bitter about it.”

“Where is he tonight?” The interviewer asks, barely tripping over the pronoun.

“I messed up,” Geralt admits, just the perfect touch sheepish, “I said I wasn’t ready to bring him to an event. Now I’m here and he’s all I can think about.”

Jaskier… can’t believe it. He’s acting, obviously, using the persona he and Triss crafted to perfection. And yet he’s… bringing Jaskier into the character. It’s like nothing he expected. 

The interviewer presses her luck. “What’s his name?”

“I shouldn’t say,” answers Geralt, “I didn’t warn him. We need to talk about how much I’m allowed to brag.” The interviewer laughs like it’s the best joke she’s ever heard.

“Fuck,” Jaskier curses loudly, “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

He needs help. He needs… he needs to get to Geralt. How? He won't be checking his phone, not tonight of all nights. Triss! She’d know his schedule, she’d know exactly where he was at any moment.

The manager had entered her number, along with Yennefer’s, the night of the dinner party. It rings for a few agonizing moments.

Finally, “Oh, it’s you,” Triss snaps over a din of voices, “I can’t believe your nerve!”

“My nerve?” Jaskier dumbly repeats.

“I don’t know if you said something or guilt tripped him—”

“No, no I didn’t!”

“—But you’ve completely ruined all my plans! I’ve been putting out feelers to Vogue, Elle, GQ, just about every major publication, hinting at an exclusive, ground-breaking story. I was going to sell the interview to the highest bidder and Geralt would have had a tasteful full spread, possibly with pink, purple, and blue accents—”

“I didn’t know he was going to do that,” Jaskier protests, to no avail.

“—Instead of something classy, he goes and blurts it out to a _minor music outlet_! You cannot fathom the absolute waste!”

“I’m sorry he messed up your perfect plan, but I swear he did that on his own! And I need to talk to him about that, actually...”

“Well,” Triss huffs, crackling the line, “I don’t see why you’re calling me, you’ll have to wait ‘till morning anyway. Everyone’s on their way to the afterparty, we’re about to get shitfaced.”

“Triss, where is the afterparty,” He demands, gesticulating wildly with his arms although she can’t see it, “I need to get in there and see Geralt! Tonight!”

“It’s far too late to get you an invite, Jaskier, and honestly I’m not inclined to—Hey!” There are sounds of a scuffle on the other line.

He asks with concern, “Triss?”

“Jaskier!” The voice that greets him exuberantly is hard to place. It’s when it continues smoothly, that he realizes, _resting bitch voice_ , it’s Yennefer. “I’m texting you the address now. Just give me a buzz when you’re outside, I’ll come and fetch you, darling.”

“You,” He splutters a bit, “Why, I mean, thank you, thank you so much, I’ll be there in—”

Yennefer cuts him off with a cheery, “Toodeloo,” and leaves him with silence. Before he can get irritated at being hung up on, his phone pings with a text message, and he sends up a prayer that Yennefer isn’t just messing with him. He runs to the door, and down the driveway, and out the gate, running while he calls for a cab.

* * *

_I’m here_ , he sends the text.

The exterior of the club has a red carpet laid out between metal barricades. Straining against the barricades on both sides are screaming fans and members of the press/paparazzi. The cool Los Angeles night is made hot and tacky by the sheer number of bodies and hot lights. Jaskier has elbowed his way to the front of the crowd, pressing against the metal bars, but the sight of a large intimidating bouncer keeps him from jumping the barrier and storming the club.

It feels like he waits an age.

A vision in a white pantsuit, the blazer daringly low-cut and her silhouette feminine, out strides Yennefer in strappy heels. Her expression is imperious and unbothered as she ignores the calls from photographers and journalists. Squinting, she scans the crowd and spots him, and she beckons with one finger. Astounded, Jaskier ducks through the throng of people, until Yennefer can reach him and literally pull him over the barricade and onto the carpet.

“There you are,” Yennefer says, throwing her arm around him, amid a flurry of flashes. So that only he can hear, she murmurs, “Smile and look like we’re having a cordial conversation.”

Jaskier bares his teeth and asks, “Aren’t we?” The lights are blinding and the shouting is overwhelming. Everyone is looking at him. He hadn’t paid attention to what he was wearing or his hair when he ran out. He feels queasy.

“No, I’m doing you a favor,” explains Yennefer, “and you’re about to do me one.” Without warning she herds him towards the door. Behind them the crowd is in uproar. _“Who is he?”_ Is the question repeated with increasing urgency. Yennefer turns sharply backwards once their at the door, and calls out, “Oh, didn’t you know? This is Jaskier, he’ll be working on composing some songs with me in the near future.”

The clamor grows, but Yennefer motions to the bouncer, and the two of them enter the dark hallway. The noise from outside is buffeted by the closed door, and now there’s a thrumming bassline from within rising to meet them. Yennefer holds him steady as it feels like the room spins.

“Easy, I can’t imagine that was pleasant,” She says quietly, “Most first times aren’t.” Thankfully he catches his breath quick and shakes off her touch.

“What was that,” Jaskier asks, “About composing for you?”

“Yes, my payment,” says Yennefer clasping her hands. “You see, for years I’ve been trying to break out of the American sweetheart role. I want to make rock music, something heavy and dark. And none of my people have been very supportive, so I’ve had to turn to independent help.” As he blinks, she adds pointedly, “You.”

He shakes his head. “Why? I write pop-y, silly love songs.”

“What Geralt’s played for me was good. Admittedly, I’d like to do something more hardcore,” Yennefer waggles one hand back and forth, “But I figure first we write an acoustic song, I take it to my people as proof of concept, and they’ll finally get me someone to produce it. So that’s what I need,” she finishes, eyes wide and beseeching, “from you.”

“You realize, don’t you,” says Jaskier, “That this deal is equally if not more so beneficial for me? If you end up singing a song I write, or co-write, that’s… that’s…”

“Then we help each other,” Yennefer decrees. She holds out her slender, manicured hand for him to shake. Still bemused, Jaskier takes it. “Good. Now I don’t care whether you’ve come to berate Geralt or make out with him, but whatever you do, _please_ make a scene. Triss’ headaches are so fun to behold.”

“I…” Jaskier smiles and tugs her handshake into an awkward hug. “Thank you, Yen, seriously.”

“Oh stop it, this face isn’t made to blush.” Yennefer pulls back and pushes him ahead of her.

Breathing heavily, Jaskier follows the sound of the bass through to the club’s main room. There the heat of dancing bodies rises in a mist only cooled by the servers weaving through carrying aloft trays of drinks. Yennefer leaves his side immediately, lured by a flute of champagne and swept away. The lights are low and pulsing purple and red. Jaskier could give himself a headache just scanning the room for Geralt. So he musters even more courage and wades into the dance floor. 

He flows through the sea of bodies until he reaches what he thinks is the center. Closing his eyes and breathing deeply, he makes another prayer. He opens his eyes and looks around.

There, on raised steps, looking like it leads off to the restrooms, Triss and Geralt argue. They both look gorgeous, Triss in a flowing asymmetrical dress, and Geralt in his black suit, his white hair done up in a braid. It’s too dark to clearly see their expressions, but Jasksier can read defensiveness in his boyfriend’s posture. Funnily enough, he _thinks_ he knows what they’re arguing about.

Then like a miracle, Geralt turns his head, and suddenly they’ve locked eyes across the room. Geralt stares like he’s a mirage. Jaskier’s legs seem frozen. Then Triss pushes at Geralt’s shoulder, and he stumbles onto the dance floor. He fjords the crowd easily and soon they’re standing toe to toe.

“Hi,” Jaskier says, realizes that’s too quiet, then shouts, “Hi!”

Geralt leans towards him to speak into his ear. “I’m sorry!” Even that close, it’s difficult to hear his low timbre.

Jaskier chews on his lower lip, then asks, “What are you sorry for!?”

Shaking his head, Geralt tentatively wraps his fingers around Jaskier’s wrist. He tugs gently, urging him to follow, and he does, naturally. Geralt guides him back towards the steps, Triss having disappeared, and into the men’s room. It’s nice, as far as club bathrooms go. Geralt looks for a lock, but finding none on the main door, grunts and leans his back against it.

“I’m sorry,” He repeats, crossing his arms protectively. Jaskier’s brow furrows; he doesn’t want Geralt to be uncomfortable.

But he needs to know, “Why are you apologizing?”

Geralt lifts one shoulder. “I should have let you come. I regretted it the whole premiere. And…” He looks down, avoiding Jaskier’s gaze. “I probably should’ve talked to you before giving an interview about us. Triss said—”

“Are you sure?” Jaskier presses. It’s the only thing he’s needed to know all night.

Geralt says, “Yes.”

“No, but are you _sure_?”

Geralt stops and really thinks, looking at Jaskier steadily. He says, “I’m sure about you. I’m sure I love you. I want you to be a part of my life and I’m not ashamed of you.”

“What about your career?”

“I have enough job security. Even if I never get another role, I’m comfortable.”

“Geralt, I love you.” Anxiety has him bounce in place. “But you know this is going to change things. We’re going to be under scrutiny, like I’ve never had to deal with before. Are you sure we can survive it?”

“Yes,” Geralt vows, “Yes, yes.” That’s it. That’s what he needed. Jaskier is ready to throw in the towel and accept it, but Geralt keeps talking. “I never should’ve left you all those years ago. We could’ve been happy if I’d taken the chance and let us try.”

“You don’t know that,” He has to protest, “We could’ve fizzled out and you might never reach your full potential. I don’t wanna think I’d hold you back, but…”

“We could’ve been happy,” repeats Geralt. There’s a knock on the door, and he snarls, “Use the women’s!” Whoever the interloper was must heed his advice, because the knocking stops.

“I’m happy now,” Jaskier tells him with all honesty, “I wouldn’t change a thing about our pasts for risk of changing that.”

“Are you? Happy?”

His doubt can’t stand. Jaskier crosses the distance between them and insinuates himself into Geralt’s space. With a hand beneath Geralt’s braid, he guides him down into a kiss, long and sweet. 

“I’m in love with an incredible man who actually loves me back, so much so he’s willing to tell the _literal world_ about it. Yeah, Geralt, I’m happy.”

* * *

Months later, after doing the long distance thing while Geralt toured the world, after kissing publicly in LAX arrivals, and after Triss’ ideal _tasteful_ magazine spread has hit shelves… Jaskier is on stage, at the end of a long set, sweat dripping down his arms to his calloused fingers as he strums his electric guitar.

Resplendent in black chiffon, Yennefer sings into the mic, her hair whipping wildly in the wind. Her voice is rough, the way she’d trained with a vocal coach to do without destroying her vocal cords. Jaskier plays at her side as she delivers the lyrics they’d crafted together.

> [“I am the fire](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8hkmuTvkp_s)  
>  I am burning brighter  
>  Roaring like a storm  
>  And I am the one I've been waiting for  
>  Screaming like a siren  
>  Alive and burning brighter  
>  I am the fire...”

She screams at the bridge, no less intense than the chorus. Pyrotechnics flicker and flare behind them. The stadium undulates in a sea of dancing and singing with a current that pushes against the front of the stage like a tide.

> “I don't believe I'll fall from grace  
>  Won't let the past decide my fate  
>  Leave forgiveness in my wake, oh  
>  Take the love that I've embraced  
>  I promise to myself, me and no one else  
>  I am more than this  
>  I am the fire
> 
> I am the fire  
>  I am burning brighter  
>  Roaring like a storm  
>  And I am the one I've been waiting for  
>  Screaming like a siren  
>  Alive and burning brighter  
>  I am the fire...”

She finishes the song with several more agonized, “I am the fire!”

The audience goes wild. This was their first and most popular song together. It captures Yennefer in her element, quite literally. He knows he’s privileged to have known her well enough to vocalize what makes her unique, so that she can share it with the world.

“Now, my lovelies,” Yennefer calls out, her voice ringing through the immense venue, “I’ll be leaving Jaskier here to wrap it up. Give it up for Jaskier!” Yennefer claps along with the crowd, and despite her words, she doesn’t leave the stage but steps back towards their drummer.

Head bent, Jaskier adjusts his mic to aim at his mouth, and says, “Sort of a tone shift, but you know what you’re getting when we co-headline. Bit of dark, bit of light.”

He strums the opening to his latest single, and a fervor sweeps through the assembled fans. The song starts slow, deceptively soft.

> [“It's a pleasure to meet you my friend, come take a seat at my desk](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ogsbUiSY2TU)  
>  I gotta tell ya kid, the whole team is more than impressed  
>  Your melodies soar and all of your choruses shine  
>  The lyrics are sound and your voice is fundamentally fine  
>  But face it, if you wanna make it onto radio  
>  Kid, you gotta do as I say  
>  Change all the hims into hers  
>  And just don't tell the world that you're... Shh!”

Behind him he knows Yennefer is bouncing along as the beat picks up.

> “Happy to help, take my card, please think about what I've said  
>  This is an industry where people make money,  
>  So your art has to sell  
>  And you should never seek to challenge an audience,  
>  They buy what they're told and we never get it wrong  
>  Go write us a non-offensive, tasteful, conventional song
> 
> Like this one:  
>  Girls like boys and boys like girls  
>  And that's the way it should be  
>  Forever…  
>  Yeah, girls like boys and boys like girls  
>  And that's the way it will be  
>  Forever....”

Somewhere waiting for him backstage is Geralt. He’ll wrap him in his massively strong arms and kiss him softly and say, _“you were great”_ , like he has at every performance since the days at The Purple Hare. They’ll cool down with Yennefer and Triss until they leave the two women to their own strange courtship, and then they’ll go home, to their shared home, with all of Jaskier’s possessions and clutter. They might fuck or they might make love depending on their mood, or they’ll just go to sleep wrapped up in each other. One of these days Geralt will propose, or Jaskier will, they haven’t decided.

> “You wanted me to write a hit record  
>  For the radio  
>  Are you never gonna get it?  
>  The kids already know...
> 
> Some girls like girls, some boys got a boyfriend  
>  I like guys and they like me  
>  We hold hands, make out do all the things that lovers do!  
>  Some girls like girls, some boys got a boyfriend  
>  I like guys and they like me  
>  We hold hands, make out do all the things that lovers do!”

It is indescribable to hear hundreds of voices sing back, “Some girls like girls, some boys got a boyfriend…”

> “Whoa!  
>  Girls like boys and boys like girls  
>  And that's the way it has been  
>  Forever  
>  Yeah, girls like boys and boys like girls  
>  And that's the way it will be—  
>  _Whatever!_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it! I promise this time! Thank you to everyone who's been on this journey with me, I can't believe this story has over a hundred comments. I've read every single one and they were all instrumental in inspiring me to finish this AU.
> 
> Yennefer's song is I Am The Fire by Halestorm, and Jaskier's is Radio-Friendly Pop Song by Matt Fishel. I always knew I wanted to end with Fishel's song, that's where the title is from.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Tinseltown](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24298957) by [epaulettes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/epaulettes/pseuds/epaulettes)




End file.
